


Burning

by junes_discotheque



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Masturbation, Other, Religion Kink, gratuitous old english
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:13:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were going to burn him. (Masturbation, Athelstan/Lagertha/Ragnar mentioned)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burning

**Author's Note:**

> Any Old English errors are the result of Athelstan being a bit hysterical.

They were going to burn him.

It had first started when Ragnar looped the rope over his head and tugged him down the winding path to his farm. A fire had been lit in Athelstan's belly, and whispering Latin prayers did nothing to freeze it. The fire had grown from there, when Ragnar and his wife appeared, half-nude and in the middle of coitus, to tempt him like the serpent itself.

But Athelstan resisted. Though he could feel the tug of flame as surely as he had felt the rope, he would not allow this new master to control him.

He whispered his prayers again.

Again, they did nothing.

Soon he came to understand it was the language. With a wide and salty ocean separating him from his homeland, and with enemies surrounding him and possessing him, wasn't it more important than ever to return to that place in his mind, that place where God protected him? If God would not answer his Latin, perhaps he would hear Athelstan's native tongue, and the cry from the faithful so violently displaced.

His prayers changed.

_Heofoncyninges mīn, iċ spræce þē–_

No; this was wrong as well. The fire still burned. He pressed his hand to his stomach, willing it to be quenched, and as he prayed, he slid his hand down further. With each inch, the fire grew brighter and more unbearable. He reached to feel the eyes of God upon him, but all he found was the seeking blue of Ragnar's gaze.

Athelstan shuddered.

_Iċ þū cwēme—_ he tried again. Athelstan tried to picture his ocean, the waves crashing on the beach at Lindisfarne, the cold rains and the morning fog that seemed to penetrate every crack of his home. He willed himself to feel the chill of the English air, and yet, he could not. He grasped at the sleeves of his robe.

_Se bryne ācwence—_ Athelstan cried aloud as his hand brushed the front of his robes, and felt the strange stiffness there. He had a vague notion of the nature of this disturbance, as all monks of a certain age were required to learn so as to recognize and correct the weaknesses of their flesh, but Athelstan had not yet been considered old enough. 

He tried to remember his room at the monestary, the faces of his brothers, the candles lit for prayers and the soft thrumming of his blood as he felt God's hand upon his brow. But all he could see was Lagertha's fingers (delicate and pale but deadly with a sword) stroking along her bare leg, and the smirk of her husband behind her.

They bade him join them. And Athelstan had been terrified in a distinctly unnatural way. He had wanted, in that moment, the four heathen hands on him. Tearing his robes away, searching his body, making him _feel_ —he could not know what. He knew to do so would be to defy God in the most blatant manner, and yet, God's wrath was not what he feared. 

He understood little about the pleasures of the flesh. To attempt—even the most chaste of base desires—would only serve to humiliate himself. He feared he would disappoint them.

The thought made him sick, to know he had considered the offer so far as to understand his own inexperience and feel _shame_ for such. How had they corrupted him so quickly? 

_Iċ þū bedece—_

Athelstan ground the heel of his palm into his traitorous flesh, biting back whimpers of—pain, it must be pain—and knowing he deserved this. He deserved to find a sharp edge of rock and draw blood, until the desire was past. He had never been a flagellant, but now, he believed he understood why they went to such measures to control and absolve themselves.

There would be no absolution for him.

_Mē ālynne þæm firenluste —_

It consumed him. Agony and desire and guilt and _betrayal_ and he screamed, howling at the heavens, calling down God to answer for Athelstan's torment. He knew it was useless, and knew God was more likely to send a second punishment for Athelstan's shaken faith than to appear, golden and terrible, and tell him that he was forgiven.

_Bærne his werhāda ond hire wífhāda, ond mē āhredde—_

The fire died, and warmth spread through his limbs, and for a brief moment he saw before him a shining white light. He reached out to touch it, but he was so weak, and he found himself collapsing in the wet grass. A stain crept over the front of his robes.

Athelstan's face was wet from tears.

**Author's Note:**

> ... yeah so it's 3:30a.m. and I decided what I really needed to do was write Vikings fic with gratuitous Old English. Which I kind of am not the greatest at (... one semester and I kind of sucked). 
> 
> I will probably regret this in the morning.


End file.
